


it is written

by theelusiveflamingo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Alternate Universe - 1950s, F/M, Judaism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-24
Updated: 2015-06-24
Packaged: 2018-04-05 23:42:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4199565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelusiveflamingo/pseuds/theelusiveflamingo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa Stark, fresh out of school, arrives for her first day of work at Petyr's modest accounting office.</p><p>Today is the day Petyr Baelish begins to get what he deserves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it is written

The el rattles by, and Petyr sighs, getting up from the creaky chair to slam the window shut so hard some plaster flakes off the wall.  He keeps track of everything—there’s nothing in his well-trained mind that he can’t access as soon as he needs—yet somehow, he can never remember that September in New York is a sticky, wilting inferno.  If he’d been raised to believe in Hell, he’d call it Hell.  Instead, it reminds him where he stands in the world. He can work late nights, weekends, holidays, he can work on his  _own_ holidays and never speak of his family, he can kiss Tywin Lannister’s ass, he can be just as pale-skinned and sharp as the men down on Wall Street, but he can’t move out of this miserable office.  Yet.

He stares through the smudged glass, through the glaring sunlight, and down into the gloom of Third Avenue.  There’s no beautiful redhead in the latest modest fashion coming down the block from the stop at 59th.  Is he being punished?  Has his grandfather’s God come to pay him a visit at last?  If that God he’d read about while his grandfather stood and stood and stood, mumbling the silent prayer with his thick Yiddish accent, was the kind of God who’d punish Moses for hitting a rock, well.  What might the bastard do to a lost follower who took pleasure in making his way into the  _restricted_ sanctuaries of the Harvard Club and the Yale Club to hob-nob with all that  _goyische_ money?  To say his acceptable name over and over.   _Petyr. Petyr.  Just call me Petyr, I can tell you and I’ll be good friends._

It’s only Rosh Hashanah, though.  Ten more days till he must atone, till his fate is sealed, or so they say.  She might still come.  He’s not religious, anyway, not in the slightest.  He’s a man of logic.  Logic is the way of the country-club set.  The way of the American Dream.  And he’s farther along that path than any other Baelish has been.  Did all the magnates of the 19th century worry about atonement?  Hardly, he thinks, so neither will he.

The buzzer rings, and he adjusts his collar and smiles. Logic, logic.  Of course she’s come.  He’s made the right choice.

Sansa Stark looks more beautiful than ever standing there in the doorway of his miserable accounting office.  Perhaps it’s just because of how close she is to him, but no, it’s not just that.  She has grown taller.  She has matured in other ways too.  His eyes fixate on the buttons over the swell of her breasts.  The shirt fits impeccably, of course, but there’s a hint of a strain where button connects with fabric.  He keeps track of everything.

“Miss Stark,” he says, standing up while sliding the picture of her mother from today’s newspaper off the surface of his desk. It was a nice article.  As far as philanthropists go, the Starks tend to be more than decent.  “It’s lovely to see you again.  Please, have a seat.”

Sansa blushes.  “You don’t have to call me Miss Stark.”  Her hair is neatly pinned up, but a few strands of it have escaped, and the humidity has made them curl just slightly against the nape of her neck.  He thinks of kissing her there, right there. “We know each other.  You really can just call me—”

“Well, you’re my secretary now, aren’t you?”  He glances at her in a way he knows will be hard for her to read.  “In the office, we’ll maintain decorum.”  He drops his voice low.  “The next time I’m at one of your galas, you can call me Petyr again.”

She nods, her eyes wide.  “So I should call you  _Mr._ Baelish?”

He files the tone of her voice as she says this away for later, much later.  “I would suggest that, yes.”

“Well, then where should I begin, Mr. Baelish?  What do you need me to do first?”  He watches Sansa’s hands fiddle with the chain of her purse for just a moment.  Then he stops.  She is trying her best to appear more experienced than she is.  He likes this about her. “Mother told you, didn’t she? I just finished school last month. This is my first job.”

“There’ll be plenty of time to learn, Miss Stark.” He leans back in the chair.  It doesn’t creak.  “You have to start somewhere.  Then you work your way up.  I’ll teach you.”

It’s his dead grandfather’s New Year, he thinks again. An auspicious day.  The perfect day to begin  _this._ He smiles as another train clacks and howls by on the tracks outside.   _Write_ this  _in your Book of Life_ , he thinks to the entity he has no use for.   _Write that today is the day Petyr Baelish begins to get what he deserves._


End file.
